


The Function of a Rubber Duck

by meditationsinemergencies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death of a friend, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies
Summary: Arthur Weasley finally learns the function of a rubber duck.CW: grieving the loss of a friend.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: You're My Best Friend





	The Function of a Rubber Duck

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DA_Friendship](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DA_Friendship) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> A rubber duck
> 
> Many thanks to my beta!

In the palm of his hand, he held a rubber duck. It was on the smaller side, but this one was his favourite, as it reminded him the most of his late friend. 

Arthur Weasley curled his fingers around the plastic toy and clenched his jaw in unison with his muscles squeezing tightly around the object. He crouched down in the field, limbs creaking and popping and showing their age—in this position especially, his knees ached. For a moment he mused that he was much too old to be in the situation he was in and simultaneously much too young.

He was taking a risk being out here. Away from The Burrow, away from his wife. If he wasn’t at home or at work, he wasn’t safe, and he wasn’t very safe at work, but he certainly wasn’t safe out here in an open field in the countryside.

If Alastor Moody had known that he was out here, he’d gruffly swear and berate him for being foolish and sentimental; tell him he didn’t give two fucks about a proper burial or funeral or memorial or any of that shite. 

It pained Arthur that his friend had been murdered, that Alastor was the first casualty of the second war. His stomach churned every time he wondered what had happened to his body—what had they done with it. He was certain they had taken it and used it as some symbol of their victory: The great Auror Alastor Moody was dead. 

It was hard to grieve when there was so much work to be done. It was even harder to grieve when you knew that much more grief was to come. 

Arthur hadn’t the faintest idea of just how much he would grieve in the future, but he knew he would in some way. He was a smart man. He knew that the likelihood of his entire family surviving the war was slim. 

He had seven children, each of them with their own role in the war. The risk was high. 

He would have never said this to Molly. He would have never told her that he had done the arithmancy numerous times. Some nights he would obsess over it. Running the same equations over and over. The best outcome was that only one of their children would die, and so he knew that the worst of his grief was yet to come. 

He couldn't tell Molly, and Alastor was dead, so he couldn't tell him, either. 

Instead, he told his rubber ducks.

***

His fascination with rubber ducks became a running joke between him and others at work, but Moody had clung to it. 

Alastor Moody was not an affectionate man and, unlike Arthur, he was not comfortable showing himself to others. 

At work, Arthur was the type of person who gave hugs to anyone, sang Happy Birthday to coworkers, cried when new babies were born, and always got extra sappy when he drank.

In between the wars, when things were calm, before Moody was kidnapped by Barty Crouch Jr., he and Moody would go out almost weekly to The Leaky Cauldron. 

The two would talk about their jobs and the weird things they encountered. Sometimes they’d give one another advice, sometimes they'd regale stories the other already knew, but always, without fail, by the end of the night, when Arthur was warm and buzzed, he would wrap his arm around Alastor and say, “You're my best mate, mate. I love you. Even if you’re a crotchety kitten’s fart.” 

Alastor would laugh gruffly and roll his eyes, putting his arm around Arthur and nodding, “Yeah. Yeah. It’s time to go home, eh? Molly’ll be worried.”

Arthur would shrug, “Nahhh. Molly is enjoying her peace and quiet.”

The men would laugh together, letting their evening die down. 

The two men loved one another: they were like brothers. Different in many ways but kindred spirits just the same. Fiercely loyal. Dedicated. Caring. They simply showed it differently. And while Alastor never told Arthur he loved him, never referred to him as his best friend to anyone, Arthur knew.

A wall in Arthur’s office was lined with floating bookshelves. One shelf was dedicated to the various pictures of his family: He and Molly’s wedding photo, a photograph of Molly at the beach, looking over her shoulder at him and laughing, a baby picture of each of his children, and various other photographs of them as well. And while this shelf was a homage to Arthur's life, so was another.

The shelf directly below it was filled with rubber ducks of all sizes and personalities. None were magical, they were all Muggle, and they had all been given to him by Alastor over the course of their friendship.

There was a duck for each child that had been born, a few for his birthday, the others, and there were many, were ones Moody stumbled upon on various jobs, some he’d knick from Muggle houses he’d been in or Muggle stores. 

Once, the two men had gone to a Muggle pizza restaurant, in the back there were arcade games and crane machines. Alastor won at least five different ducks that evening. Chucking them at Arthur as they parted ways. 

It had all started long ago when the men were at a Ministry hosted event. Wizards and witches were discussing what they found the most complex about Muggles. Everyone seemed to have something deep and philosophical to say, and Arthur simply stated that he just wanted to know the function of a rubber duck. 

Moody had found this hilarious, and the next day at work tossed a generic yellow rubber duck into Arthur's office. It landed with a thud on his desk. Arthur's face lit up with delight when he saw it. Picking it up and letting it rest in the palm of his hand, he curled his fingers around it with a smile at Alastor.

Alastor gave him a short terse nod and left. A week later, he came by to ask Arthur if he'd figured out the function. Arthur said no, but confessed that the little plastic duck made him happy and perhaps that was the only function. 

The next duck was at Bill's birth, and on and on it went. Alastor always asking Arthur if he'd figured out its function. 

***

After Moody's death, when he felt some things he had to say we're too much to put on Molly, he spoke to the ducks. He'd try to work out problems. Time and time again he explained to them the arithmancy he was doing, explained it in painful detail hoping, pleading, that he would notice an error in his calculations, but that error never came. 

Soon after, Dolores Umbridge began raiding and searching offices. His was one of the first. Spells hitting things in his office left and right, pictures were shattered, books abused, and many ducks flew across the room—some she took, "suspicious" she'd said, some she destroyed on spot. With those she left, Arthur took them home and hid them in the gardening shed. Molly knew of his duck collection, he wasn't hiding it, he simply couldn't bear to tell her what had happened, how Umbridge had broken something inside him, how she'd somehow made Moody's death harder for him. 

On a particularly difficult night, the night they were questioned about Ron's whereabouts, with their house actually empty of all children, he'd been unable to sleep, and he suddenly was overcome with the need to put his friend to rest. 

The next morning, he rummaged through the ducks and found the one he wanted. It was the first one he'd been given all those years ago, and Arthur felt as if this duck, this small plastic yellow toy, somehow embodied part of his friend. 

He'd chosen the field because Alastor preferred solitude and quiet. He enjoyed privacy and isolation. If the man could have chosen where to be buried, he would have wanted an open field, one away from the lights of any city, one far away from any noise and distractions, one that would have given him complete solace in its peacefulness. 

Arthur dug with his free hand, not wanting to use magic. Finally, he set the duck down and began to talk to it, using both hands now as he dug. 

"I know you'd say this was stupid, Moody," Arthur chuckled a little. "I don't care. You deserve something, mate." 

He set the little duck into the hole he had dug, and he smiled at it. "I've always been a simple man with simple needs. I need Molly, and I need our boys and our girl. I need to tinker with Muggle things. I need Molly's shepherd's pie, and... I need you. You're not here now and soon more people will be gone. I'm selfish to say that I wish to Godric you were here for me."

Tears dripped down onto the ground where he crouched and he chuckled again, "Merlin. You'd give me hell for this. For crying. For giving a rubber duck a funeral. Bugger. I miss you."

Finally, he scooped up the dirt he'd dug up and buried what he had left of his friend Alastor Moody. 

Standing up he wiped off his hands, and then shoved them into his trouser pockets, his fingers wrapping around another duck. He took a deep breath and turned once more to the grave.

"I suppose I've figured out the function, after all these years. To remember you and our friendship and to continue to fight like hell."


End file.
